


The Big Picture

by Rasborealis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: An Artistic Crisis, Appreciation of Art, Draco Malfoy Being an Idiot, Drarropoly: A Drarry Game/Fest, Harry Potter Being an Idiot, Humor, Humorous Pining, Humorous angstiness, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings about Art, Mutual Pining, Panic about Art, discussion of art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rasborealis/pseuds/Rasborealis
Summary: Draco thinks it's a great idea to spruce up his boring office with a painting. Pansy thinks it's a terrible idea for several excellent reasons. As it turns out, they're both right.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 240
Collections: Drarropoly 2.0 - A Drarry Game/Fest





	The Big Picture

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Etalice for some wonderful editing work & plot help!

“That’s _so_ inappropriate,” Pansy sighed. “Draco, seriously, you can’t just hang a nude painting in your office.”

“You can’t prove it’s a nude painting,” Draco said haughtily. “In fact, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. It’s abstract, Pansy, you’re not supposed to be able to tell what it is. The curator told me her personal perception of it is a calico kitten playing with a ball of yarn. See, this here’s the tail, and the yarn is the thing over there.”

“I can kind of see it, now that you’re pointing it out.” Pansy’s eyes were still fixated on the canvas. “But for the most part, it still just looks like a painting of two naked guys making out to me, and I don’t think I’ll be the only one thinking that.”

“But that’s the genius of it!” Draco tried to explain. “I will tell people it’s a picture of a kitten, and if they see anything else, I claim that their depraved mind is simply playing a trick on them. That should shut them up nicely.”

Pansy stared at him for a long moment before she said, “I can’t wait for you to tell Minister Shacklebolt that he has a depraved mind,”

“Don’t be stupid, he never comes in here!” Draco waved her off confidently. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. The painting would provide a much needed bright spot in his dull Ministry employee existence, and if there was ever someone he needed to unnerve – truth be told, there usually was – he would simply schedule a meeting in his office and let the painting take it from there.

“Why are you so insistent on having it here, anyway?” Pansy asked.

“It reminds me of…something nice.” Draco tried to look casual.

Pansy groaned. “Oh Merlin, you think it looks like you and Potter!”

“What? No! This has nothing to do with Potter, why would you even think that?”

“Because you’re blushing, Draco, and you’ve got that ridiculous expression on your face that you only get when you think about him. And also because there’s a blond and a dark-haired man in that painting, no matter how much you try to deny it.”

“I do _not_ have a smile on my face.”

“Yes, you bloody do,” she said. “Go look in a mirror.”

“And anyway, thinking about him doesn’t make me smile, it makes me irritated and grumpy because he’s a git.”

“Draco.” Pansy sighed. “I don’t believe that. _You_ don’t believe that. Who exactly are you trying to fool?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Pansy threw up her hands and stomped out, muttering, “Pathetic tossers, the two of you.”

Draco looked at the painting, at the long elegant lines, the dark spots that might be kitten ears but that, to him, looked like dark, messy hair. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but the only thing he could think of when he saw the painting was _Potter_ and _him being with Potter_. It could have been any number of couples with contrasting hair colours that the painting might have portrayed, but every glance made Draco feel warm all over and had his mind shouting _Potterpotterpotter!_

And he enjoyed the fact exactly until Harry Potter walked into his office, looking dishevelled and out of breath and with his cheeks tinted a fetching pink colour.

“Sorry, sorry, I know I’m a few minutes late, Doris cornered me in the elevator, and I was forced to ride up and back down three times, talking standardised broom bristle curvature the entire way.” He smiled apologetically and dropped into the visitor’s chair in front of Draco’s desk at the very same moment Draco’s heart dropped into the general vicinity of his kneecaps.

He’d forgotten about the meeting with Potter. _How? How in Merlin’s name had that happened?_ He’d spent days trying to figure out which set of robes brought out his eyes the best, done copious amounts of research barely related to the topic they were supposed to be discussing, just in case it came up in conversation. He’d imagined all the ways the meeting might go, had _dreamed_ about it, about Potter being so impressed by Draco’s wit and skill that he’d simply grab Draco and bend him over his own desk to fuck him so hard that it made the paintings on the wall rattle.

_Oh, Merlin, the painting!_

Draco stood there for far too long, wide-eyed. Slowly, the realization trickled in that Potter was looking confused.

“Malfoy?” he asked. “This _is_ when we agreed to meet, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Draco said, and then, smoothly, “No!”

“No? I’m really sorry, I can-”

“No, I mean yes, this was when, I’m just, um, running a little behind, you know how these things go…” Too late, he realised he’d grabbed two handfuls of his previously wrinkle-free robes and was clutching them in his desperation.

Oh, this was so very bad. How could he stop Potter from looking around his office or at least turning his head to the left? He’d simply have to be so charming, so fascinating-

“Oh,” Potter said.

Too late.

“Malfoy, your painting,” Potter started, with a very strange look on his face, and it was fine, completely fine, Draco had, after all, anticipated sort of situation.

So, naturally, he panicked.

“Do you like it, Potter?” he asked with a voice he tried to pretend wasn’t shaky, attempting a neutral, unaffected expression. But Harry didn’t respond. He looked almost…horrified. “I see that you don’t,” Draco went on, and oh fuck, he was drawling now, falling back into the old, familiar role of his Hogwarts-era self, and he didn’t seem to be able to stop. “I can’t say I’m surprised; your tastes always did seem to run a bit on the pedestrian side.”

_What was he saying?_

“I suppose you’d need to be extensively educated to truly appreciate the sort of quality and depth this piece has. How it exudes the artist’s calm confidence, the way he has expressed the joy and playfulness of the kitten-”

“Kitten?” Potter asked, sounding strangled.

“Yes, of course, the kitten, Potter, are you some sort of simpleton? Can you not even make out the subject of this piece? How dull.”

Potter made a choking noise.

“Oh, honestly, I can take it down while you’re here if it truly offends your sensibilities that much.”

Potter opened his mouth and closed it. And then, he jumped out of his chair and bolted from Draco’s office as though chased by a herd of vicious centaurs.

Draco looked after him, utterly despondent.

~*~

He just had it…just _hanging in his office_ , Ron, just _right there_ , on the wall, like it was any old painting, like it was pleasing to look at and nothing more, like…like…”

“Yes, mate, you already said that,” Ron pointed out, his voice muffled by half a buttered scone that he was busy devouring.

“And he thinks it’s a kitten! _A kitten!”_

“You said that, too.”

“What do I do?” Harry asked, utterly lost. “I just took off like an utter berk, he must think I’ve gone ‘round the bend. What do I _do_ , Ron?”

“Go straight back in there, grab him, and start doing things I never want to know about,” Ron advised and stuffed the other half of the scone in his mouth.

Harry stopped his pacing and turned so he could level a proper glare at his best friend. “I feel like you’re not treating this situation with the level of alarm and urgency that it requires.”

“Mate.” Ron pressed the palms of his hands to his desk, spreading his fingers over the many forms that littered it. “He fancies you. He’s fancied you for ages. You’ve fancied him for ages. What is the actual problem here?”

“The problem is that you’re wrong, Ron!” Harry threw his hands up in exasperation. “He doesn’t fancy me one bit! He called me pedestrian and dull and a simpleton only half an hour ago!”

“Yeah, but…that’s just what he _does_ , isn’t it, doesn’t mean he actually thinks that.”

“Yes, Ron, that’s exactly what it means!”

“You called him a pretentious, self-important prick in the lift the other day.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Did you mean that?”

“Of course not, I only did that because I thought he’d caught me looking at his arse and I panicked.”

“See?” Ron said smugly. “Insulting each other is just a thing you do, _both_ of you. You don’t mean it, he doesn’t mean it…stop me if you see where I’m going with this.”

“I don’t,” said Harry, confused. A thing they did? Harry and Malfoy didn’t do… _things_. Unfortunately.

“You’re both idiots, is the big picture here.”

“Picture? There is no picture, Ron, there’s just…oh, bloody hell, he thinks my painting is a _kitten_ , don’t you see?”

“No,” Ron said and stood, stretching lazily. “I’m getting some tea. Want any?”

“I’m having a crisis here!”

“Yep,” said Ron on his way to the door. “Me too. It’s called the ‘Harry’s a blind, oblivious idiot who doesn’t listen to me’ crisis.”

“Sod off then,” Harry snapped. He was furious at himself, his heart was breaking, he wanted to hide under his desk as to never have to face Malfoy again, and now Ron was failing in his best-friend-support duties, because he was supposed to _listen_ , and _commiserate_ , and _not call Harry an idiot_.

All because Harry had poured his heart and soul into a cathartic painting which showcased his feelings of love and desperation and longing.

And then Malfoy had gone and decided it was a kitten.

~*~

“What happened to your painting?” Pansy asked, her tone soaked with _I told you so._

Draco rubbed his eyes. “I stashed it in a closet,” he said. He didn’t even try to hide his distress, slumped as he was on his chair, robes wrinkled.

“I told you it was a bad idea! Who was it that demanded you take it down, Fernsby?”

“No one,” said Draco. “I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore, it was only a reminder of how badly I fucked up.”

Pansy was silent for a moment, studying his face. Then, she said, “Potter saw it, didn’t he? Last time you were this emotional was when you overheard him agreeing to go out with that utter twat from the Spirit Division.”

“He reacted…badly.” Draco sighed. “And then, I reacted badly and insulted him, and he just…stormed out, he was that upset. And that meeting was supposed to be my chance to impress him, Pans, and I fucked it up so badly.”

Pansy took a breath and then exhaled along with the words, “You are such a dolt.”

“I know,” Draco said, and slumped even more. “I’m completely fucked. And…oh, Merlin, it just occurred to me that I’m even more fucked than I thought, because there was a _point_ to the meeting, and I can’t even finish the bloody project without his input.”

“You need to reschedule.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. If I’m fired, I won’t have to worry about running into him in the lift or the cafeteria.”

“Oh, no.” Pansy stood and loomed over him as well as somebody of her size could, which was…not impressive. The looked on her face more than made up for it, though. “You are not leaving me alone in this place! And you sure as the hells aren’t going to quit your job over Harry fucking Potter!”

“Maybe…maybe if I reschedule, he’ll send someone else,” Draco tried.

“Maybe,” she said.

~*~

“You took down the painting,” was the first thing that burst out of Harry as he entered Malfoy’s office, which…great. He had told himself that he simply wouldn’t acknowledge the artwork’s existence or that they had ever talked about it, and the first thing he’d done was _ask_ about the bloody thing.

Malfoy, too, looked horrified that he had mentioned it. Harry winced. He opened his mouth to apologize, and Malfoy said hastily, “It just, er, it didn’t fit with the rest of the decor in here.” He went very red. Oh, Harry thought, and then _Oh!_

Because nobody blushed when they talked about kittens.

He stared at Malfoy with wide eyes, processing the fact that Malfoy had _lied_ to him, lied about what he thought the painting was about, which meant…which meant…

“Is there something wrong?” Malfoy asked, strangled, and Harry wondered how he was supposed to sit through this stupid meeting knowing that Malfoy had looked at a picture Harry had painted, a picture _of Harry and Malfoy_ naked, kissing, entwined, and had seen it for what it was.

Although Harry was very much counting on the fact that his chosen style made the identities of the men impossible to determine with certainty.

He cleared his throat. “No, um, we should…we should get started.” Feebly, he lifted the folder he had brought.

They had been talking for a quarter of an hour and gotten through about half of the material they needed to cover when something occurred to Harry.

If Malfoy knew what it depicted, it wouldn’t have made sense for him to hang the painting in his office unless he simply hadn’t been worried about people’s reactions.

Which meant that it was Harry in particular seeing the painting that had embarrassed him.

“Potter? Are you even listening to me?”

“No,” Harry said honestly before he realised that it was absolutely _not_ the answer he should have given.

“Great,” Malfoy said. His face was still a bit flushed, and he was avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“Sorry, I, er…” Harry was far more rattled than he should have been by that revelation. “Can we…can we finish this some other time?”

“What? Why?”

“Because, because, well, I have…” Harry thought feverishly. “Reasons.”

“Reasons,” Malfoy repeated flatly.

“Yes. Important ones.” Harry stood so hastily he nearly swept a potted plant off the corner of Malfoy’s desk. Fuck, he just couldn’t concentrate, not when he’d suddenly realised that Malfoy _cared_ , even if it was only in some strange way Harry couldn’t quite define. And he also knew that Malfoy had seen the essence of Harry’s secret fantasy about the two of them, and now all Harry saw in his mind’s eye was the scene he had imagined – in detail – as he’d been painting. And what a scene it had been.

He stumbled out of the office. It occurred to him how incredibly rude that was only after it was far too late to go back and apologise. He hurried frantically through the ministry, because he had to figure this out _now_ , and there was only one person who could help him wrap his mind around it.

“Hermione!” he called, bursting into her office. Too late, it occurred to him how incredibly rude he was being…again. He should probably stop doing that.

Hermione looked up from where she was on her knees before the fireplace and squinted at him, looking supremely unimpressed.

“Can I call back in a bit?” she politely asked whoever was in her Floo. “Something just came up.”

“Sorry,” Harry winced when she’d stood and was giving him a glare.

“This better be good.”

“It’s, er…”

“Yes, Harry?”

“It’s about Malfoy.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she exclaimed.

“I’m really sorry, I-”

“Sit down, Harry. You’re already here, so we might as well get this over with.” She pushed a chair his way while she leaned back against her desk.

Harry sat obediently. “Right, so, I think…I think he cares.”

“You think he cares.” She sighed. “Oh, Harry.”

“You don’t think so?” Harry asked plaintively.

She cleared her throat and changed her expression into one of polite concern in a way that looked very deliberate to Harry. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “Tell me why you think he cares.”

So Harry chronicled the events surrounding the painting and Malfoy’s reaction and explained the conclusion he had come to.

“The question is, why is he so worried about what I think?” Harry asked her. “It really seemed to bother him, Hermione!”

“Well, my guess would be that he’s desperately in love with you and therefore doesn’t want you to think badly of him.”

Harry stared at her, feeling hurt. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously?” he asked. “I know Ron likes to wind me up about it, but you…”

“I _am_ taking this seriously,” Hermione said. “That wasn’t a joke.”

Harry processed that. If she was telling the truth – and she wouldn’t be cruel enough to lie right now, not Hermione – then that meant…and then…but Harry had thought…and Draco wouldn’t…

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes widening.

“Harry,” she said, regarding him closely. “I can’t believe Ron isn’t here to witness this. You’re _finally_ there.”

“Wait,” Harry said. His head was positively spinning with this new truth. “How long have you known?”

“Basically forever.”

“I…oh. I know you and Ron have said things, occasionally, but I always thought you two were just joking because you were annoyed that I talked about him so much,” he admitted. “And I thought that there was no way you might be right because you don’t usually see him, so how could you know anything about it?”

“Well, we did go to school with him for six years, it’s not like we aren’t familiar with him,” Hermione pointed out. “And frankly, he’s quite obvious about it.”

“Really? But then how did _I_ never figure it out?”

“Because you’ve got the observational power of a pumpkin, Harry. Also, you’re completely irrational when it comes to him.”

“Thanks.”

She grinned at him. “You have other strengths.”

Harry supposed he could accept that, because he’d gotten there in the end, hadn’t he? “What now?” he asked. “I can’t just walk in there and start making out with him like Ron said. And I did run away from him _again_ , so he’s probably not very happy with me right now.”

“Wait a few days, then ask him on a date,” she said. “Simple.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Please, don’t make this too complicated, Harry, it doesn’t need to be.”

“But I mean, he’s a pureblood, you know, he’s probably used to all this _courting_ nonsense, and maybe he’d expect me to…oh, Merlin, do you think I’ll have to ask his parents for permission?”

“He’s a _disgraced_ pureblood trying to adapt to a modern, muggle-friendly society. But if you’re that worried about it, start by giving him a gift, or send him flowers.”

“To sort of, er, soften him up a little?” Harry thought about it. “That might work.”

She smirked at him. “Of course it will, _I_ thought of it.”

~*~

Draco stood in the doorway to his office and wondered if he was actually going to faint. He’d been standing there for at least three minutes, his mind racing faster and faster as he tried to figure out what was going on.

“Draco?” Pansy asked somewhere nearby in the hallway, and he heard her heels clicking as she approached. “Oh, good, I was hoping to catch you before-” She gasped, presumedly because she’d caught a glimpse of Draco’s office. “Salazar!”

“Yes,” Draco said faintly. “Yes, that.”

His office had been…redecorated, so to speak. With flowers.

A lot of flowers.

A positively ludicrous number of flowers, in fact.

“Draco, who-” Pansy started, and that was the question, wasn’t it? Who would go through this much effort, for him? Not only were the floor and his desk and his shelves covered in flowers, but there were vases literally _on the walls_ , probably affixed with a sticking charm.

The thought had him reeling because it couldn’t be the person he wanted it to be, and-

“It’s Potter,” Pansy said with confidence.

“How do you figure that?”

“Because he’s the only one who’s crazy enough about you, and crazy enough in general, to do something this ridiculously over the top.”

Draco took two steps into the room and touched one of the flowers, a calla lily surrounded by snapdragons. Whoever had done this had picked an excellent florist. The composition, the colors…it was all stunning. It was also heart-stoppingly expensive, Draco could tell that much, and Potter didn’t have that sort of money. Did he?

“Accio card!” Pansy called, poking her wand in a direction that seemed altogether random. Nothing happened, and she shrugged at the incredulous look Draco gave her. “Well, it was worth a try.”

“Accio _card?_ Could you be any vaguer?”

“Whatever. Are you finally going to throw yourself at Potter after this display?” She gestured around the room.

“There is virtually no proof that these are his doing.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible!”

“I’m realistic!”

“You keep telling yourself that. Actually, please _don’t_ keep telling yourself that, it’s driving me bonkers.” Pansy reached for a dahlia and plucked it out of its arrangement. “I’m taking this as compensation.”

“Fine, whatever.” Draco carefully picked a path through the flowers.

He left them there for the rest of the day. Every time he looked up from his work, he couldn’t help but smile.

~*~

“He _looked_ at me,” Harry said. “Malfoy, I mean. He…he _looked_ at me.”

Ron swiveled his chair around and gasped, his eyes widening. He clutched his chest. “Be still, my-”

“Shut it,” Harry said. He couldn’t seem to stop worrying his lip between his teeth, so he’d given up trying. “It was different from how he usually looks. He didn’t even seem to remember that I was really rude and ran out of his office two days ago. It was just this…”

“What?”

“Piercing.” Harry had finally settled on a word. “This piercing stare, like, really intense.”

“Trying to figure out if you sent the flowers.” Ron yawned. “How are you going to let him know it was you, by the way?”

“I’m working on that,” said Harry.

“You don’t even know yet?”

“No, I mean, I’m literally working on it. I’m painting something.”

“Hey,” Ron sat up straight. “That might actually be a good idea.”

“No need to sound so surprised.”

“Mate, when it comes to Malfoy, I’m genuinely shocked every time you act in a rational manner.”

“Hermione said that too,” Harry told him. “Hey, did you two talk about me behind my back?”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Behind your back? Would you like to move in with us so we can be sure to do it in front of you if the topic happens to come up? Or should we just spend every moment you’re not with us pretending we don’t know who this ‘Harry’ person is?”

“Well, if you put it that way…”

“Yes, I am putting it that way.” Ron flapped his hand at Harry. “Now leave the thinking to the smart people and go paint.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Go away.”

“Fine,” Harry stepped back into the corridor, but he couldn’t resist shouting back, “I’m telling Hermione that you lumped your intellect in with hers!”

The panicked yelp he received in answer felt very satisfying indeed.

~*~

“Nothing,” Draco complained. He knew he looked petulant, sitting there with his feet on his desk and his arms crossed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Nothing since the flowers. Who does that? Who sends flowers and then _ignores_ someone?”

“So you’re upset that Potter is slacking?” Pansy asked.

“I’m upset that my _secret admirer_ hasn’t revealed himself yet,” Draco sniffed, then paused for a second. “Or herself. But hopefully not that. Women mystify me.”

“I can’t believe that you’re worrying about something completely irrelevant because we _know_ your secret admirer’s gender, as well as, oh, _his name!”_

“You need to stop that,” he said. “I do not wish to get my hopes up because-”

There was a knock at the door. Draco nearly fell off his chair trying to right himself. Pansy only gave him a bemused look and stood.

“I have work to get done anyway, I’ve spent long enough indulging your hopeless denial.” She gave him a wave, then opened the door and froze. “Oh,” Draco heard her saying. “Hello, Potter, I was just on my way out.”

A sharp spike of panic made it suddenly hard to breathe. Draco tried to look casual, but he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he hid them under the desk, but then he realised that it probably made him look ridiculous.

“Nice to see you, Parkinson,” said Potter politely. He pushed the door closed behind him and proceeded to approach as though Draco were a wild animal. There was a large, thin, square package in his hands. “Er, hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Draco breathed. He mentally rolled his eyes at himself for sounding like a fainting maiden.

There was a long pause. Just as Draco realized he should probably offer Potter a seat, and he opened his mouth to do so, Potter spoke.

“This is for you.” He thrust the wrapped package toward Draco.

“Oh?” Draco asked, trying to remain unaffected when he was hoping feverishly, invoking Merlin and Salazar and, oh screw it, even Godric that it was what he wanted it to be – a gift, something that said ‘I hope you liked my flowers, let’s make out and get married.’ He stood up slowly – mostly because he didn’t trust his legs all that much at the moment – and walked around the desk.

“I made…this,” Potter said awkwardly. “Because I didn’t know how else to tell you that I…well, the thing with the painting is…oh, just open it, please.”

“The painting?” Draco asked blankly. What did the bloody painting have to do with romantic gestures? Nothing, that’s what. His heart sank. He unwrapped the package slowly – Potter had clearly wrapped himself, it was a mess and a half – hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, in Potter’s mind, the painting had something to do with his hypothetical feelings for Draco.

It was…another painting.

“What?” he asked stupidly as soon as he glimpsed a corner of canvas. Potter had made this? Potter had painted him something?

Why?

But when he ripped away the last of the wrapping, his breath caught, and he realised that he’d misunderstood, because this was by the same artist who had done Draco’s other painting. The style was unmistakable. This one showed what Draco thought might be the same blond man who’d been in the other one, but in a much different pose, something that seemed…coy. It was difficult to tell because the style didn’t lend itself to figuring out details, but Draco just got that sort of feeling from it, as though the artist had communicated through more than just the subject’s pose itself. It was the same thing that had drawn Draco to the first painting, the way that the painting spoke so much louder than just a regular picture might. He loved it immediately.

“How did you get this?” he asked. “I asked the curator, she said the artist hadn’t done any others, and she promised to tell me right away if…”

He trailed off when he glanced up and saw Potter standing there, looking even more awkward than before.

“What is it?” Draco asked.

“Please don’t be mad,” Potter asked…begged, really.

Draco tensed. “Why?”

Potter moistened his lips. “The title and artist are on the back.”

Draco turned the canvas over and read,

_My Former Enemy, by Harry James Potter_

The blood began to rush in Draco’s ears as he read the words, read them again, then a third time, but he still couldn’t make sense of them. Why was Potter pretending he had painted this? And how had he gotten…how had he…why…?

“It’s the reason I ran away, that first day I saw the other one,” Potter said. Draco heard him as though they were standing in a large, echoing cave. “I had painted, well, it was something I imagined, about you and me, and then you said it that you thought it was a kitten, and that was a bit upsetting, to be honest. I…Malfoy? Are you…are you really mad at me? I’m sorry I didn’t just tell you, I really am, I didn’t know how.”

Draco looked up at him. Potter was standing there, wringing his hands, looking as anxious as Draco had ever seen him – and considering they’d faced each other during a war, that was saying something.

“You…you paint,” he said, then winced because that was an incredibly stupid thing to say.

Potter huffed a tense-sounding laugh. “Yes. Hermione suggested it, because I’m rubbish at talking about the things that bother me, and she thought a different kind of outlet might help. It did, at that. And as it turns out, I’m not half-bad at it.” He flushed, as though embarrassed to acknowledge a strength of his.

“And you painted...”

“You,” Potter said, and took a deep breath, looking as though he was preparing to be hexed the next moment. “Because, as it turns out, I’m rather mad about you.”

Draco dropped the painting and launched himself at Potter, pressing their lips together. Potter staggered but kept his balance, which was a good thing because Draco was clinging so tightly to him that they would have gone down together. He kissed Potter until he was too oxygen-starved to continue and had to pull away.

“Oh, good,” Potter said, sounding vaguely dazed. “I was worried maybe you weren’t interested after all.”

Draco had rarely heard anything more idiotic, and he said as much.

“Hey!” Potter protested. “I put my most secret fantasy about you on a canvas, and then you _saw_ it. It’s…scary.”

Draco knew his own smile was changing into something more predatory as he purred, “Well, to even the score, why don’t I tell you about one of the fantasies I’ve had about the two of us? You see, it happens to involve this desk right here…”

_Fin_


End file.
